


The KGB's Most Awkward

by DunkinLove



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Comedy, F/M, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-05
Updated: 2017-09-18
Packaged: 2018-08-13 05:07:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 15,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7963636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DunkinLove/pseuds/DunkinLove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of one-shot ficlets about Illya and his awkwardness (with some bonus awkwardness from his colleagues).</p><p>Requests welcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Monarch of the Glen

**Author's Note:**

> I know I am in the middle of a multi-fic series but when inspiration strikes (during a nightmarish airport layover) you just got to write...

Napoleon checked his watch for the nth time in the past twenty minutes. He listened carefully to the shuffling and curses from behind the bathroom door. It would all be quite funny if they weren't in danger of running late due to wardrobe malfunctions.

"I do not understand why this is necessary!" came another grumble from behind the door.

"It's not my fault, Peril, that of the hundreds of accents originating from the British Isles the only one you can manage somewhat convincingly happens to be Glaswegian. So if you can speak for the part, you're going to have to dress for the part."

It had taken Napoleon several days to find an authentic Scottish tartan of the correct pattern for Peril to wear to the gala. The event was due to be attended almost entirely by aristocrats and having an obvious communist stalking about just wouldn't do. Peril might not be able to pull off acting as a member of English high society but he might have some chance as an obscure Scottish landowner.

If they could just get him in the damn kilt, that is.

"I offered to come in and help-"

"I do not need help!"

Napoleon hears the jangling of a belt, more curses and then a pause.

"You did not give me anything to wear...underneath," the voice says lowly.

"Ah, yes. That was intentional," Napoleon smiles, perhaps too broadly. "A real Scotsman wouldn't be bothered with drawers. It's rather a thing of pride for them, so we can't have you wearing anything under there. You don't want a soft breeze to...blow your cover." He couldn't resist and he entertains himself by envisioning Peril climbing a ladder outside on a windy day or standing over a subway grate. The possibilities to blow one's cover were endless...

There was a small knock at the hotel room's door. Napoleon went to let Gaby in, fully done up and ready to go. Nine times out of ten she was ready for any mission involving formal wear well before either of her partners were.

"Has he put on the skirt yet?" she whispered conspiringly.

"It's a _kilt_ , and I'm not sure. He's been locked in there for the last thirty minutes."

Gaby smothered her laugh with the back of her hand. "I still cannot believe you talked him into this!"

"Well, you know Peril; anything for the mission."

Gaby sits down on the couch to make sure she has a front row seat for the unveiling.

"Do all Scotsmen wear kilts?" she asked, curious.

"No, not all, but in my experience the ones who are most proud of their country are partial to them...and would anyone believe there is a version of Peril that isn't obsessively proud of his country?"

"I suppose not." She giggles as she is struck by a thought, "Are you going to give him a garter with a tracking device on it? Make him stand on a table so you can check it?"

He rolls his eyes at her guffaw of laughter, hissing at her to be quiet. He didn't need Gaby spooking Illya into never coming out of that bathroom.

Napoleon checks his watch again and huffs in exasperation. "Peril, we really need to get going-"

"I'm ready!" he shouts back.

Napoleon turns to wiggle his eyebrows at Gaby as she silently clapped her palms in anticipation. She must be thinking this is sweet revenge for all the times Peril has wrestled her into some uncomfortable haute couture gown or pair of sky high heels. She was positively blood thirsty.

The door opens slowly and Illya steps out tentatively into the hotel room.

"Allow me to introduce Alistair Andrew Bruce MacDougall, Laird of Tulloch and proud son of Scotland," Napoleon smiles at his masterpiece.

Illya stood impressively, if a bit awkwardly, in full highland garb with a red tartan kilt struck through with green, a glossy black prince charlie jacket and a leather sporran hanging from his hips. A dirk stuck out of his dark sock which Napoleon had no doubt Peril would use if necessary.

"I look like idiot," he grumbled.

"Nonsense," Napoleon tutted, "You look like a highland rogue straight off the cover of a Harlequin novel. Right Gaby?"

He looks back at his partner who is staring slightly open mouthed at the Caledonian vision in front of her. Her eyes roamed and then hovered somewhere around Peril's knees.

No more comments from the peanut gallery then...

"Gaby-"

"It's nice- I mean, good," she stammered, shaking her head a bit, "he looks fine."

A blush creeps up Illya's neck and cheeks to match the red of the tartan around his waist. He somehow gathers the courage to speak. "We do not want-"

"Ah, ah," Napoleon chides, "let us hear that brogue."

Peril huffs before clearing his throat and taking a deep breath. "We dinna want ta be late," Illya said, deflecting the attention off him, hitting the low syllables of his words with a deep appealing lilt. From a smaller man the words might have sounded harsh, but from Illya they felt like drinking good whiskey next to a peat fire; warm and rugged.

Gaby shifted in her seat uncrossing and crossing her legs again.

"Yes, we should get moving," Napoleon agreed, "but first..." he walked over to Illya, opening his sporran and dropping a tracking device inside.

He smiled. "You should wear a purse more often."

"Pess oof," Illya growled.

"That's the spirit!" Napoleon said, slapping the sporran lightly making Illya jerk backward before heading over to the bureau to put his gun in his holster.

"What is et?" he hears Scottish Peril ask.

"I didn't say anything," Gaby replies.

"Yer starin'."

"No I'm not," she claims lamely.

_Liar._

They step out of the hotel room and head down the hall toward the elevator, Napoleon and Gaby walking slower than normal to enjoy the view.

Napoleon sidles up to Gaby when Peril is out of earshot. "Just so you know," Napoleon whispers crudely, "he's freeballing it under that thing."

She scowls at him in disgust as though she hadn't spent the last ten minutes envisioning what was underneath that swinging fabric. The minx.

"Easy access," he winks. "You're welcome."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise to any Scottish readers on how I have written Illya's Scottish lines in this fic. It's a total caricature, I know. I also completely made up the Lairdship of 'Tulloch' so apologies again if that happens to be your family's estate or something...
> 
> There is no practical reason as to why I wrote this. I am just a sucker for a Scottish accent (much to the chagrin of my Irish partner) and a friggin' kilt and apparently Gaby (and Napoleon) are as well.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this and when I finish my other fic I will happily take requests for this series if anyone has them.


	2. Horseplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team visits a stable. Things get real awkward, real fast.

Gaby narrowly avoided sinking her heel into a steaming pile of manure. She knew this job would have many hazards; she just never expected horse shit to be one of them. She continued to walk along gingerly as she followed their mark through the stables on his massive estate outside Istanbul. The man was a notorious illegal arms dealer but he also had a more lawful interest in horse breeding, so naturally he was intrigued when he came across a young heiress with a fortune to spend and a love for all things equine. He was quick to invite Miss Schmidt as well as her horse trainer and body guard on a personal tour of his bright and echoing stables littered with droppings. 

Gaby dreaded having to feign interest in these big dumb beasts for the afternoon. Why couldn't he have been a car enthusiast? Cars don't smell like fertilizer...or attract biting flies for that matter, she thought as she swatted at yet another insect trying to land on her cheek. Humans began relying on machines for a reason. Why some people insisted on sticking to the smelly past was beyond her.

Başar Sadik affectionately patted the glossy rumps sticking out of the stalls as they passed by. Her highly qualified horse trainer did the same, while discreetly wiping his hand on his handkerchief when Başar wasn't looking.

"These are some fine specimens you have here Mr. Sadik," Napoleon drawled with his fake twang. Gaby rolled her eyes. She knew he detested these sacks of unrealised glue as much as she did. 

"You will not see finer horses anywhere," Başar said proudly, "not even in your Kentucky, Mr. Deveny.

Gaby hoped she'd never have to see a horse again here, Kentucky or otherwise.

They entered an indoor paddock that, thankfully, stunk less and only had one horse in it; a small dark bay mare tied to a post. 

"Ah, Rakkas! My little dancer!" Başar greeted the animal enthusiastically.

They walked up to the railing as the little brown horse watched them inquisitively. 

"You are in for a treat today my friends!" Başar claimed, "Rakkas has just come into estrus."

Gaby felt Illya tense beside her. "Estrus?" she asked, confused. She had never heard that word before. 

"She is in heat Miss Schmidt! Today you will be able to see the true essence of horse breeding!" Başar exclaimed in a booming voice.

Gaby glanced in alarm first to Illya, who completely avoided eye contact, then to Napoleon who was grinning from ear to ear. This can't be good...

The mare's ears perked up when there is a loud bray from just outside the paddock's door. 

"Rakkas is quite stubborn and has turned down two stallions already. I am hoping she will change her mind today. I have brought in someone special for her."

Gaby hears the paddock door open behind her as the grin on Napoleon's face broadens. She turns to see a massive golden palomino being led by a stable-hand toward the mare, tossing its head to slacken the rope lead. 

"Let's hope the little lady has a taste for big blonds," Napoleon said gleefully, hardly trying to contain his mirth. Illya gripped the railing in front of him. 

No, no, no, no. No!

"We _really_ don't need to watch-" Gaby insisted, turning to Başar. 

"Come now, Miss Schmidt! If you are to get into this industry you must know all parts! Even...how is it said? The nitty gritty?" 

Gaby looked on in despair as the stallion was led over to the little brown mare. 

"He's quite the looker," Napoleon commented, "big, tall, handsome. She won't be able to resist him."

"Yes, he is very handsome horse, but quite the temper," Başar sighed. "We have named him 'Tehlike' which in English translates to the word...not 'danger', but something to likely cause injury-?"

"Peril?" Napoleon almost choked in delight.

"Yes, I believe this is the word."

Napoleon made a high sound like air escaping a bicycle tire before coughing loudly to cover his amusement. She felt Illya shift his feet and take a deep soundless breath.

"Such a temper though," Başar went on, "always kicking and fighting...he would not be worth the trouble if he did not sire such beautiful foals."

"I've had the same problem myself with a certain hot-blooded stallion," Napoleon said whimsically. "Always so bull-headed, never following directions. It would seem a shame to have him gelded though...I'm sure his little mare would be most distraught."

Gaby dug her nails into her palms as she heard the rhythmic tapping of Illya's finger on the railing. 

The stallion nickered at the mare who laid her ears flat in irritation. As he came round from behind she gave him a swift kick to the chest forcing him to back away. Gaby couldn't help but smirk a little. "Maybe she is not interested after all?" she mused. 

"This is typical behaviour," Başar explained. "They will start out foes, then they will wrestle about a bit, as they get to know each other. What is it that you say? 'Horseplay'? But trust me, she will let him mount her soon enough."

"Oh, I have no doubt about that," Napoleon said with a droll smile as she felt his meddlesome gaze burn into the sides of their faces.

She _hated_ Napoleon. She hated him, and she hated his fake name and she hated his even faker accent. His words made her want to jam a mint julep down his throat and then punch the glass for good measure. 

Illya wasn't much better just _standing_ there, saying nothing, practically reeking of awkward discomfort. She was sorely tempted to run from the room but knew she would never be able to face Waverly and tell him she blew her cover because of the prospect of horses mating.

The stallion pawed at the ground, filling the space with a nervous energy. As much as she tried to avoid looking, it was nearly impossible not to stare at the physical evidence of the horse's fervor which hung nearly half the length of its already long legs.

"Scheiße," Gaby breathed aloud, all three men glancing in her direction. A deep blush spread across her cheeks but she couldn't peel her eyes away from the animal. 

"This can make a man feel...inadequate," Napoleon murmured soberly. 

Illya's fingers were gripping the railing so tight that his knuckles were turning white. She wouldn't have been shocked if he broke the beam in half. Such large hands...

She snapped her eyes away from the railing, the images in her mind disturbingly encouraged by the scene in front of her. Damn Napoleon for putting ideas in her head!

The palomino bit at the mare's haunches, getting her to swing her dark head around obediently. 

"Ah, you see!" Başar said triumphantly when the stallion made his leap atop the mare as she gave traitorous squeal of excitement. "All she needed was one good look into those blue eyes!" 

All three of them went silent, hypnotized by the carnal nature of the act. Gaby was suddenly acutely aware of how close Illya was to her, the height of him beside her. She needed to swallow but was worried it would resound through the paddock. Her left ear itched from a fly bite but she dare not reach up least she draw Illya's attention. She stood stock still hoping a hole would open in the ground beneath her. 

Was she just imagining it or had his breathing picked up?

"Do not be deceived by her small size," Başar said to his bug-eyed guests. "She has strong dancer's legs. She can take him."

Gaby swallowed, wondered if anyone heard. 

"Well, she seems to be enjoying herself," Napoleon said casually with a little sideways glance. 

The whole process took less than a minute but Gaby felt they had been standing there for hours, staring like perverted voyeurs. The stallion was led away, panting from exertion. 

"And in eleven months she will foal a strong, handsome colt with blue eyes," Başar chimed in happily. "Tall like his sire, God willing."

She needed a cigarette.

Their mark turned to Napoleon. "Come Mr. Deveny! I will show you the race tracks. I believe even you will be most impressed."

The two men walked off but Gaby stood where she was. She couldn't move, paralyzed by mortification at what they had just witnessed. From the corner of her eye she sees Illya release the railing, stand for a moment and then hesitantly turn to her.

"Don't-" she said before any words could leave his parted lips and make things even more awkward, "just...Don't. Say. Anything."

They stood quietly for a breath before she turned on her heel and marched out of the paddock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rakkas: dancer  
> Tehlike: danger/peril/hazard  
> Awkward: Illya and Gaby watching horses mate  
> Troll: see: Napoleon Solo


	3. Using Backup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya is sent on a late night errand run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a prompt submitted by Trabi: "Illya needing to buy condoms"
> 
> I was so delighted with this I went home and wrote out this madness over dinner. 
> 
> These chapters are not in any chronological order and therefore some stories will be pre-relationship and some established. This is an established relationship story.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

New York, NY 

Illya searched through his bag a third time, growing more frustrated at his lack of planning.

"I must have forget to put any in here," he grumbled, silently cursing himself. 

Gaby flopped back onto the bed with an exasperated sigh. After teasing each other for half an hour they had nearly been at the moment of copulation when Gaby had abruptly stopped them when she remembered she wasn't protected. Her purse, which contained the mysterious round case of pills she typically used, now sat at the bottom of the Hudson after a particularly messy mission. It would be a few days before she could get a refill and a few weeks beyond that before the medication would be effective again, she said. 

They needed back-up, but they didn't have any.

"Go ask Napoleon," she said, starring at the ceiling.

"Absolutely not!" Illya sputtered. "I am not asking _him_!"

"Well we can't do it otherwise," she warned. 

Illya pondered their options, anything that didn't involve Cowboy's help. "I will..." he stammered, "just before..."

Her mouth fell open in shocked disgust. "Absolutely not!" she echoed his words, "I'm not risking _that_ just because you're too immature-"

"It is not because I am immature!" he shot back. "I just do not want him gloating over us-"

"Then go to a shop!" she challenged. "Surely you're much too mature to care what some stranger behind a counter thinks?"

Illya's mind raced to try to think of an excuse not to go to a shop, but anything he came up with sounded, well...immature.

Even before Gaby he'd never needed to _buy_ rubbers. There was always a dish in the infirmary at KGB headquarters where he would pinch a few when the nurse at the front desk wasn't looking. It would sometimes take a year or more to go through them, if at all, so it wasn't anything he needed to worry about all that often. Until now. 

He was an adult man. He could do this.

"Fine," he said casually, "I will go to shop."

He got out of bed and dressed. She watched with her arms crossed over her chest and a little smile on her face. He turned to her and took a deep breath.

"I am going to shop," he said, more so to himself than her, putting his cap on his head. 

"Hurry back," she purred with a devious smile. 

As he walked out of the hotel just before midnight Illya felt that everyone he passed knew exactly what he was up to. He kept his eyes on the ground and didn't even consider asking the concierge where the nearest shop was. 

The next avenue over Illya came upon a corner shop that likely sold what he was looking for. Illya avoided eye contact with the man at the front as he prowled the aisles, twice over. 

Nothing. 

From the back of the small shop he squinted to see if condoms were held behind the front counter where the man was sitting. He made his way to the front to get a better look, feigning interest in a rack of magazines as he tried to peer stealthily over the man's shoulder.

"You lookin' for the nudie mags?" the man asked crudely from behind the counter, noticing Illya's timid glances. "Because they're back here. I got your _Playboy_ , I got your _Modern Man_ \- you into black girls? Because I got this one-"

Illya turned and nearly ran out of the shop. That wasn't the best place to go, he told himself. They probably didn't have what he needed anyway.

He walked two blocks further until he saw the bright neon lights of another bodega open for business. 

Entering, he was relieved to see that this shopkeeper was much more subdued and only glanced at Illya over his newspaper, before looking back down. Illya made his way through the store, checking each aisle before determining that the contraceptives must be behind the front counter. 

He gathered his courage and walked up to the counter spotting the line of condom boxes, just out of reach.

"What can I help you with?" the man asked, putting his paper down.

"I need-" Illya began hesitantly when out of the corner of his eye a little wrinkled hand placed a box of soap on the counter next to him. He looked down to see a stooped elderly woman smile up at him as she went through her change purse. She was so small he must have missed her in the aisles. 

He smiled back politely, top lip trembling slightly, small beads of sweat breaking out across his forehead.

"I need..." he looked directly at the box he wanted but couldn't form the words for the life of him.

"Listen buddy, there's other customers-" the man at the til said impatiently.

"I need box of Marlboros," he blurted out miserably.

Illya walked five more blocks with the carton of cigarettes wedged in his trouser pocket. He didn't even smoke. None of the shops he passed were open so he turned down the next avenue and headed back to the hotel. 

They would just have to make do.

Gaby was still in bed when he entered the room.

"What took you so long?" she asked sitting up. "Did you walk halfway across Manhattan?"

"Almost," he grumbled. 

As he was removing his jacket she came over to him, still naked, and reached for the box in his pocket. 

She bit her lip and gave a playful smile that quickly vanished when she saw the box of Marlboros in her hand. 

"Cigarettes?!" she shouted.

"They ran out of...what we needed," he lied.

"You don't even smoke Illya! You got cigarettes because you were too embarrassed to ask for condoms!"

He didn't deny it this time, just hung up his jacket and cap as his face bloomed bright red. 

" _Mein Gott_ , Illya you are an adult man! Stop being so awkward!"

He sat to untie his shoes, avoiding her eyes. "We will make do," he claimed, "there are other things to be done or maybe we can just...read together?" 

He looked up to meet her furious glare. With a huff that was probably closer to a growl of frustration she marched into the bathroom and came back dressed in her bathrobe.

She headed for the door.

"Where are you going?!" he asked in alarm.

She turned on him. "I am going to be an adult," she spit the word, "and ask Napoleon for some!"

"No!...Gaby, wait!" he called after her as she opened the door and slammed it behind her.

He wanted to chase after her, knew he should stop her, but at the same time he wanted her to be successful on this mission where he had failed.

He just knew that Cowboy would never let them hear the end of it...  
___

Gaby exited the elevator and found the room directly above their own. She pounded on the door.

"Napoleon!" she shouted, putting her ear against the door. She heard shuffling. "Napoleon open up I know you're in there!" she called again.

An older well-dressed couple were making their way down the hall, probably just back from the opera or ballet or whatever it is elite geriatrics do on a Friday night. They gave Gaby a critical look at her commotion.

She smirked and decided to have a little fun. "Napoleon open up, I need a condom!" 

A second later the door whipped open and Napoleon grabbed Gaby's arm to usher her inside. He smiled charmingly at the passing couple who scowled back in disapproval. 

"This is the Waldorf," he hissed at her, closing the door, "not a college dormitory!"

Gaby entered the room and saw a young blond sitting on the love-seat adjusting the strap of her dress.

"This is my colleague Gaby," Napoleon explained to the woman, "she'll be leaving soon," he said with an irritated look at Gaby.

"Well do you have any?" she asked him.

He sighed and motioned for her to enter the bedroom.

"Excuse me for a moment," he said to his guest and followed Gaby.

"Our chivalrous white knight couldn't come up and ask himself?"

"No, he couldn't," Gaby watched as Napoleon rummaged through his suitcase. "Nor could he get any from the shop. I sent him and he came back with cigarettes."

Napoleon looked up. "He doesn't even smoke."

"Exactly, which is why I'm here."

"I hope you know that the only reason I'm doing this is so the two of you don't go producing some hybrid," he said as he dug into a pocket, "the prospect of which, is terrifying." He pulled out a box. "So this is more for me than you."

"Whatever you say Solo, just hand them over."

He dumped the box's contents into his hand. Three condoms fell out. 

"Give me two."

"Absolutely not!" he said indignantly, "These are mine and there are only three left!"

Gaby lowered her voice. "You and I both know you are kicking her out as soon as you are finished," she said snatching two foil squares from his fingers, "but more importantly, we like to go twice."

Napoleon winced. "How are you able to walk in the morning?"

Gaby rolled her eyes and stuffed the condoms in her pocket. She sauntered to the hotel room's door in her bathrobe.

"Nice to meet you!" she called over her shoulder to the woman whose name she never got and would likely never learn. _Sorry you're only going to get laid once tonight_ , she wanted to add. 

Entering her own room Gaby felt like Jason returned with the Golden Fleece. She removed the condoms from her pocket and threw them at Illya's chest.

"See how easy that was? Now get it up and put it on," she commanded, removing her robe and tossing it on the chair as she walked back to the bedroom. "I'm going to need you to make up for lost time."


	4. Falling to the Communists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby feels under the weather.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a suggested prompt from thoughtsthatfester "Prompt idea inspired by this chapter: the boys are freaked out by Gaby getting her period"

"We need to get out of here soon. I'm going to go mad." 

Gaby peered out the dirty frosted window of the cabin, across the thick blanket of snow to the forest of bare trees just beyond. It was a lifeless landscape, but still a dangerous one and they didn't have the supplies to make the remainder of the journey on their own. They would need to await extraction, which in this barren remoteness, could apparently take an entire day. She saw no signs of reinforcements. 

"We've only been here eight hours," Napoleon said as he sat with his back against the wall on the opposite side of the one room that made up the ramshackle building. "Don't tell me you're getting cabin fever already."

Gaby shifted uncomfortably back into her sitting position on the floor. She might not have a fever but she certainly felt unwell even if she was the only uninjured occupant in the cabin. Napoleon still tenderly held what was likely a broken rib and Illya sported some bloody gauze wrapped around his head. Regardless of having made it out of this mission unscathed, Mother Nature wasn't letting her off scot-free. 

There was a deep wave of cramping low in her belly. She cursed herself for not checking the calendar before the mission. This monthly occurrence was typically at the bottom of her list of things to worry over, but she had to admit it was goddamned inconvenient each and every time. She didn't have any supplies with her and she certainly couldn't ask for assistance for either of her ultra-masculine partners. It was just one more instance in which Gaby wished she had at least _one_ fellow female field operative to work with, even if only to roll her eyes at over the antics of the other two. 

Illya fiddled with their radio looking up to see her face contorted in discomfort.

"Have you been injured?" he asked, concern in his eyes and voice. Ever since they had resigned themselves to waiting in the cabin, she could tell Illya was agitated at his inability to to unload her on a medic, which was usually his first act upon completing any mission even if he and Solo were far worse for the wear. 

"I'm fine," she sighed.

He kept looking at her skeptically as her muscles involuntarily clenched and she awkwardly crossed her legs whilst sitting. 

"Really, Illya. I'm fine," she said more sternly. 

He finally shrugged and looked back down at his radio.

Gaby glanced toward the medical bag sitting beside her. She wouldn't mind some pain meds to dull the ache but all they had was aspirin which was bound to make the other....issue, much worse. 

She eyed the gauze. Speaking of...

Making sure Illya was focused on his radio and Solo on cleaning his handgun, Gaby slowly picked out a roll of gauze from the bag and slipped it into her pocket. She felt the first tell-tale signs of impending downpour so she stood quickly and made for the door.

"I need to use the bathroom or...bush, rather," she said over her shoulder.

Illya looked up. "I'll keep wa-"

"No!" she snapped. "I'll be fine, there's enough cover."

Gaby practically had to slam the cabin's door in his face to keep him from following her outside. She made an ungraceful, clenched waddle to the nearest crop of shrubs. 

She made do with the gauze without the assistance of her sanitary belt; something she never thought she'd actually miss. 

"And here I once thought the spy's life would be glamorous," she mumbled to herself and any eavesdropping fauna as she squatted in the bushes.

When finished, she washed her hands with snow and made her way back to the cabin, still with her cumbersome little waddle so as not to shift the gauze too much. 

She sat down on the floor with a huff, curling into a ball, legs held closely together. She hoped her slight hunch would ease the muscles of her abdomen as they tore her apart from the inside. 

"You are certain you are not injured?" Illya asked again.

"I'm certain," she insisted with an irritated glare. 

Napoleon looked up and watched her closely for a moment, head slightly tilted as he considered her position and demeanour. 

"I think our little Gaby has fallen to the communists..." Napoleon smirked. 

"Shut the hell up Napoleon!" Gaby barked from across the room

Illya looked from Napoleon to his defector colleague, eyes wide in surprise. 

"I do not follow...have you read something...?" Illya asked, legitimately curious and legitimately thinking the conversation involved politics. 

"It's nothing Illya, just stop asking questions," Gaby groaned, mind and body churning with irritation. 

"Peril, have you ever earned a red badge of courage?" Napoleon asked, still considering Gaby.

Gaby shot daggers at her loathsome partner. She felt like blood might pour out of her eyes as well as the rage boiled up inside her. 

"What?" Illya asked, looking between them. "This does not exist in Soviet military, why would I have earned it?"

"Oh, I'm just wondering, is all," Napoleon answered nonchalantly as he meticulously cleaned his weapon. "Most men don't. The average man doesn't have the...intestinal fortitude to earn such a high honour."

Napoleon glanced up from his task to flash her his signature shit-eating grin.

 _I'm going to fucking kill you,_ she mouthed as Illya furrowed his eyebrows at Napoleon in indignation.

"Have you?" Illya asked, his voice ringing with competitive curiosity. 

Gaby buried her face in her hands and firmly rubbed her temples. "Don't answer that question," she warned.

Solo looked at Illya and went on cockily, "Well, there have been a few times-"

"Stop talking!" she nearly screamed. "Both of you just SHUT UP!" 

They glanced at each other and, thankfully, did. She was going to murder them both if they didn't get out of this cabin by nightfall. 

They all sat in uncompanionable silence for a good hour as Gaby endured the undulating cramps in her body while ignoring Illya's concerned glances at even her smallest winces of discomfort. 

She was spared for a moment when Illya excused himself to go outside. 

"Why do you always have to be so nasty!?" she hissed at Napoleon as soon as Illya was out the door. 

"What?" Napoleon defended, feigning ignorance. "It's all natural Gaby, there is nothing to be ashamed of."

"You know what I mean!" she snapped. "Teasing him like that! Pushing my buttons!"

"Okay, fine," he admitted, "I was having a little fun at his expense, but honestly, you should just say what's going on before he demands you take all your clothes off so he can see your...wound."

"You're repulsive," she sneered.

"But maybe that's what you want...?" he went on as though she had not spoken.

She was about to offer him another broken rib when the door opened and their enormous Russian colleague stomped in from the snow, followed by a frigid gust of wind. He slammed the door shut behind him.

"You are injured!" he said, pointing an accusatory finger at her face.

"No I am not! Just leave it!"

"You are lying! There is blood in the snow and it is not his and it is not mine!"

"I'm _menstruating_!" she shouted up at him, nearly making the window panes rattle with her rage. "Happy?! Is there any other bodily function of mine that you would like to know about?! Do I have to share everything with you two now?!" 

Illya straightened and had the decency to look abashed at his intrusive questions and accusations, his face growing red around the bandage on his head. Napoleon stoked his mouth carefully, attempting to wipe away his grin. 

Gaby shifted on the creaking floorboard openly pressing a hand to her crotch to adjust the gauze now that she had nothing to hide.

"No," Illya said quietly, "but you should have just said something. It is natural-"

"Fine! Next time I'll just announce to the world that I'm on my period!" she continued theatrically, hoping to make them as uncomfortable as she felt. "It's high tide! I'm down for maintenance! I've been invaded by the Red Army!" 

Illya smirked slightly glancing from Napoleon to Gaby. 

"Is that actual saying?" 

Napoleon erupted in laughter making Illya's smirk grow larger and Gaby roll her eyes to the rotted ceiling.

"I hate both of you," she winced through another cramp. 

Illya sat down with his radio again, with full focus now that he knew Gaby was unharmed. After a few moments of tinkering, he paused and looked up.

"But what is red badge of courage?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so they weren't really freaked out as the prompt asked for, but certainly inappropriate (Napoleon) and clueless (Illya).
> 
> This chapter based loosely on [this scene](https://youtu.be/8w9eoZtnJSA?t=20) from the IT Crowd. 
> 
> This was a bit gross (mostly bc of Napoleon making it gross) so apologies to those with weaker stomachs. If you don't know what 'red badge of courage' is, in this context, look it up on Urban Dictionary...the classiest of all dictionaries.
> 
> I had to read up on 'sanitary products' from this time and apparently most women used sanitary belts which pretty much hold a pad in place before adhesives were used. Tampons were not widely in use until the late 60s/70s and may have been hard to get in some countries.


	5. Chewed Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya and Gaby have a meeting with Waverly.

"I trust you will have the bracelet returned?" Waverly asked the American standing in front of his desk. 

"Absolutely. It's at the top of my agenda."

"And the ring?"

Napoleon quirked his head slightly. The old bat had a better memory of the vast contents of her treasure trove than he expected.

"Of course."

"And the earrings?"

"Those too," Napoleon forced a smile, "and apologies, of course. I had no idea she was a relation of yours."

"Ah, yes, well Auntie always comes to me whenever she's in distress and after hearing the description of her American charmer-"

"You made the connection," Napoleon guessed. 

"Indeed," Waverly said. "That's all for today."

Napoleon nodded and turned to leave.

"Oh, and Solo?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Send Teller in here, would you?" Waverly asked, his eyes flickering up from his notepad, "Kuryakin too."

Napoleon paused, did his best to conceal the surprise on his face. 

"Will do."

Striding back into their office, Napoleon considered his two unsuspecting colleagues. What could they have gotten up to...and without him?

"How was this week's disciplinary hearing?" Gaby asked, not even bothering to look up from her typewriter.

"Same old, same old," Napoleon sighed, sitting down. "Have you ever noticed how small the community of geriatric aristocrats is in this city?"

"Nope," Gaby said, "can't say I have."

Gaby and Illya chugged away at their work, as though they had nothing to hide.

"Boss wants to see you," Napoleon said after a moment, "Peril too."

"About what?" Gaby asked, looking up with a frown.

"Together?" Illya wondered, brow creased.

Napoleon shrugged. "Not a clue and apparently."

His colleagues looked at each other in mild alarm before standing to leave.

"Good luck," Napoleon grinned as they walked out.  
___

Illya and Gaby walked in silence to Waverly's office, neither having the courage to ask the other for theories on why they had been summoned so soon after Napoleon's weekly chewing out. 

They entered the office after a hesitant knock.

"Ah, Teller, Kuryakin. Thank you for coming."

"You wanted to see us," Gaby said, her voice quavering a bit, despite all her training in the art of espionage. 

"Yes, just a small matter that has come to my attention," Waverly informed them. "As you know your flat is not leased under your name, but rather has been allocated to you by UNCLE,"

"Yes...I'm aware," Gaby replied, mystified. 

"So, any issues or complaints regarding the property come back to the organisation and by extension, me." 

Gaby glanced from Waverly to Illya and back. 

"What is this in regard to?"

"Apparently there has been a complaint from your landlady regarding noise-"

Gaby scoffs, hands suddenly fixed on her hips.

"I can't believe her!" Gaby explodes. "Every time I put on a record or the radio at even the lowest volume she is bashing her broomstick to the ceiling. It's ridiculous!"

"Well, you see-" Waverly began.

"You'd think someone so old wouldn't be able to hear anything at all!" she ranted, pointing a finger at Waverly "And this has nothing to do with how loud the music is; don't let her fool you. She just doesn't like it!"

"The thing is-"

"Sorry I don't listen to Bach in my spare time! Is it a crime to listen to popular music here too?! The Stasi should recruit that woman! She'd be the best they've ever had!"

"It is true," Illya interrupted with a nod to Waverly, "the music can be too loud, I have told you as much. You should be more respectful of people in your building."

Gaby slowly turned to shoot him a glare of pure annoyance and betrayal. 

"Excuse me?!"

Before Gaby could eviscerate him in front of their employer, Waverly finally cut in to clarify the issue. 

"She is not making a complaint about the music but about the...noise, coming from the flat."

Gaby and Illya turned back to face Waverly.

"Noise?" the agents asked in unison. 

Waverly removed his glasses and rubbed his brow. His discomfort permeated the room making Illya stiffen with unease at where the conversation was heading. He was now uncomfortably aware of why he was present for this meeting. 

"I am doing my best to turn a blind eye and a, deaf ear, to this particular development between the two of you," Waverly insisted. "That is difficult to do when a landlord is threatening to contact the authorities due to the amount of...vociferous Russian and German she hears in the early hours and, according to her, most Sundays in their entirety."

Illya felt the hot flush of embarrassment spread across his cheeks and neck and all the way to the tips of his ears, remembering various incidents in which he had been very _vociferous_ in his native tongue. Gaby's sudden silence told him that he didn't even need to look over to confirm her more subtle but no less shameful blush across her own face.

"I..." Illya croaked, "we..."

Illya glanced to Gaby, eyes wide in desperation. 

"Sometimes, we can..." Gaby tried to assist when he was clearly at a loss for words.

"Please, do not give me the details," Waverly pressed, "I have already heard more than I wanted to know from Mrs. Bulger, who was most emphatic in her descriptions. Just use some sense of propriety, in the future. I trust that is not above either of your abilities?"

Gaby and lllya shook their heads manically.

"Excellent. Let's never speak of this again."

The two agents turned on their heels and made for the door, mumbling embarrassed acknowledgments in their escape.

"Oh, and Gaby?"

"Uh, yes...sir," she winced, turning back toward him. 

"You might want to turn the music down as well," he suggested. "Just to be safe."

"Yes, sir, of course. Not a problem at all."  
___

Illya and Gaby closed the door behind them only to see Napoleon leaning casually against the corridor's wall.

"What are you doing here?!" Illya snapped.

"Oh, you know just...loitering," he said, inspecting his nails. "It's amazing what you can hear through thin walls."

Gaby flushed even more and stormed past him, heels clicking on the linoleum.

"You are a terrible spy Cowboy," Illya growled and followed suit.

"At least I know when to keep my mouth shut," Napoleon called after him. "May I suggest using a pillow next time?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _am_ still working on the next chapter of Reunification, for anyone who cares and is wondering why I keep procrastinating on other fics (which I am most certainly doing). Opps.


	6. Heavy Pockets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This one is extra long but it does include three different awkward Illyas: Drunk Illya, Illya at a party, and Illya finding panties in his pocket.
> 
> Enjoy!

Illya snatched another flute of champagne off a tray when a waiter passed by. He didn't want another drink, but holding the perspiring glass gave him something to do with his hands as he stood adrift in a room filled with milling party goers. 

He was used to attending these social events. His job usually took him to banquets and cocktail parties the world over, but in all those galas he always had something to _do_. There was a mark to watch or a bug to plant or a tongue to be loosened with wine, liquor and champagne.

If he were really lucky he could do all that with Gaby on his arm as his muse or sometimes even his wife. Her presence meant that he didn't need to make awkward attempts at small talk with anyone who wasn't a mark or a fellow agent. If they were approached she always took the lead, charming anyone with her banter and making polite excuses to escape and get back to the objective.

She was doing him no such favors this evening.

They were here as themselves, at Waverley's request, and as such Illya didn't even have a cover to fall back on. If he spoke to anyone he could only be himself, Illya, so he decided to avoid that situation altogether and settled for drifting about until the party ended.

Across the room full of diplomats, attachés and not a few aristocrats Gaby was engrossed in a conversation with one of Waverley's close friends, a graying slight man who was just as dashing and sophisticated as their superior. Gaby wasn't batting her eyes and there was a faint crease between her brow that appeared when she was listening avidly to what she was hearing. Whatever they were speaking about legitimately interested her.

Illya took a swig from the flute, the champagne bubbles irritating the back of his throat on their way down.

"Worried Comrade?"

Illya turned to see Napoleon who was also watching Gaby on the other end of the room.

"Of course not," Illya scoffed, taking another sip despite his distaste for the beverage, 

"I don't see why you would be; he's only an eccentric, titled millionaire who just so happens to share our Gaby's love for high-octane motor sports and is one of the few people in the world who has the means to support such a hobby-"

"He is also old enough to be her father," Illya countered in annoyance. 

"Some women are into that," Napoleon shrugged. "I was once involved with one who insisted on referring to me as 'daddy', which is fine in the context of the bedroom-"

"Please stop speaking."

"-but when she's telling the waiter at _La Caravelle_ that daddy orders her food for her -and it took me a moment to realize she was referring to me- it's all a bit much..."

Illya rolled his eyes. "Gaby is not that type of woman, she is not looking for father figure."

"We're all looking for father figures Peril," Napoleon mused. "Speaking of...looks like your babysitter has made an appearance tonight."

Illya swung around to look at the banquet hall's entrance where a stocky, red-faced man in an ill-fitting suit appeared and made a beeline for a tray of drinks. Gruzdev, the bastard, always sniffing out any opportunity for free booze and to make Illya's life difficult. He wasn't Illya's handler, per se, but the Soviet embassy sent him check in with their loan to UNCLE periodically to make sure his mind was focused in the right place, specifically Eastward. 

Illya drained his champagne and wondered whose cock Gruzdev had had to figuratively suck to get this cushy position in London. 

"Not going to say _preevyét_?" Napoleon asked. 

"No," Illya growled before stalking off. He couldn't just go home but he could find somewhere to spend the remainder of his time there in peace and away from prying eyes and forced conversation.

He was in the home stretch to the French doors leading out to the terrace when Gaby stepped in his path.

"Leaving so soon?" she nettled with a pretty smile.

"I was not leaving I am just..."

"Trying to escape a fate worse than death? Which for you is being in a place like this," she guessed.

Illya exhaled in admission, feeling more than a little pathetic for his social anxiety.

"Yes. Mostly."

Gaby's face softened as her smugness dissipated. "Let me make the rounds with you," she offered as she took his arm in her own, "and we can discuss the weather with every person in this room until our faces go blue."

Illya looked down at her hand laid delicately on his forearm before slowly disentangling himself from her hold and taking a step back. He glanced back to make sure Gruzdev hadn't seen the brief embrace. 

"Tonight is not a good night for..." Illya tried to explain lamely. He wanted nothing more than be led around the room by Gaby but he wasn't a man who could afford such freedom unless he were play acting as someone else entirely. 

Gaby frowned at his sudden aloofness before her eyes sharpened with recognition as she spotted someone in the crowd.

"Oh, you need to ignore me because of _them_ ," she groused, folding her arms over her chest.

"It is not ignoring-" 

"It's fine Illya," she claimed with zero conviction, "there are other people I can talk to." Gaby grabbed his empty glass and placed it on a passing tray before handing him her own drink. He took the delicate stem between his fingers and looked at her dully.

"I'll find another," she said with a grin dripping with annoyance and a thinly veiled threat. "Drink up and try to have some fun on your own."

Illya made it through three drinks on the brisk terrace, left in relative peace by the people grabbing a quick smoke and the wait-staff following them out to serve warm cocktails. Occasionally he would peak through the windows to catch Napoleon kissing the gloved hand of a bejewelled septuagenarian or Gaby throwing her head back with a throaty laugh he couldn't hear. They were both in their element.

Gruzdev was even more red faced than before, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief and swaying a bit where he stood. Illya may be toeing the line of defection in his own mind but at least he knew how to remain reserved and dignified even when surrounded by excess. He didn't want to confirm the Western biased belief that all Communists itched to be included in the casual consumption of luxury so readily exhibited that evening, as was expected of him. 

Yuri Gruzdev didn't seem to have received the memo.

"Always the spy," a voice said from directly behind him. 

Illya, reflexes made lax by alcohol, didn't hear Gaby approach. He hadn't even noticed her leaving the crowd.

"We're off the clock you know." Her words were husky and her eyes heavy lidded as she sized him up. She was drunk and in a mischievous mood and Illya was all too familiar with what she was capable of when she was in such a state.

She drifted toward him and ran a hand up his jacket front and over his lapel to settle on his shoulders while the other rested on his hip.

The inebriated part of his brain wanted to lift her and take her against the window, party-goers be damned, but his discipline was too ingrained that even copious amounts of alcohol couldn't match it. 

For the second time in the evening her reluctantly removed himself from her grasp.

"Gaby-"

She stepped back with a huff, but didn't argue, adjusted his jacket with a swaying drunken fondness.

"Maybe you just need a bit of inspiration," she said enigmatically, almost to herself, before sauntering away and back through the French doors to join the others.

Illya gave her a few moments before following suit. After the cool of evening the room was warm and stuffy from body heat in comparison. Illya stayed around the perimeter of the room, watching Gaby as she made the rounds and occasionally shot him coy looks over her bare shoulder.

He came to a stop at the entrance to the hall leading to the restrooms. He leaned against the wall to stop the room from spinning and to enjoy the view, stuffing his idle hands in his pockets. The fingers of his right hand brushed against something silken and smooth. His senses focused and he pulled the fabric out just enough to see the cream satin and white lace of a very familiar pair of panties.

Illya stuffed his hand back in his pocket, his drunken brain alternating between mortification and arousal like an erratic switchboard operator. His hand, almost of its own accord, caressed the satin between the pads of his fingers, hidden deep in the pocket.

Gaby trained her eyes on him again, noticed his hand buried in his jacket and gave him a slow impish smile. 

Inspiration indeed. Illya's mind finally landed on arousal and with liquid courage pulsing through his blood he wadded and maneuvered the fabric into his fist so that the only exposed fabric was the crotch wound around his index finger. He raised his fist from his pocket to just under his nose, holding Gaby's gaze through the crowd as he breathed in her scent. Her eyes darkened before suddenly going wide in alarm.

"Kuryakin! _Tovarishch_!"

Illya jumped and stuffed his fist in his pocket before turning to see Gruzdev who had snuck up the hallway behind him.

" _Tovarishch_ ," Illya barely managed. "I did not hear you coming."

"I thought you were supposed to be the best!" Gruzdev laughed heartily. "I have been looking for you. I was told you were here."

"Yes, I have been...mingling." Illya lied, hand still stuffed and clenched in his pocket awkwardly. 

Gruzdev inspected him and the odd angle of his arm.

"What is it you have in your pocket Kuryakin?" he asked, somehow summoning enough sobriety to look up at Illya with menacing authority.

Illya looked down and silently scrambled to come up with an explanation. 

"Tell me what it is you have in your pocket," Gruzdev warned in a low command.

Illya had no choice (aside from punching the bastard's sweating red face in the middle of a formal party) but to withdraw his hand from his pocket and present its contents. As his fingers unfurled they revealed the lace and satin wadded in his large palm. 

"Women's...panties," he ground out, mortified and enraged in equal measures at his own drunken debauchery.

Gruzdev's jaw hung slightly ajar as he took in the sight. He looked up at Illya from under his drawn brows, shocked and calculating. Illya felt his own jaw clench involuntarily and he knew that at any moment his presented hand would begin to shake. 

A wide grin spread across the man's face and a bellowing laugh erupted from his mouth.

"Kuryakin you are a sly one!" he jeered. "I did not know you had it in you!"

One of Gruzdev's arms was suddenly slung over Illya's shoulders, forcing him lean forward with a pudgy finger stabbing into his chest.

"You know, I always wondered about you," Gruzdev whispered seriously, his eyes trailing to Solo, mingling across the room. "But now I know better!" he announced, his joviality returning, slapping Illya's chest. "You are regular Casanova. And why wouldn't you be, look at you!"

He pulled Illya down further wrenching his neck and breathing in his face, his breath hot and meaty like a dog's. "If I had half your looks I'd be doing the same with every woman in this room. Eh?!"

Gruzdev released Illya from his headlock and patted him with far too much familiarity on his shoulders. 

Gaby, seeing the encounter, had headed over in their direction to assess the situation. Gruzdev passed her as he went in search of more drink. 

"You watch yourself around that one!" he said to her in passing. " _Serdtseyed_!"

Gaby looked perplexed before walking over to Illya.

"What was that about?"

"He made me show him the contents of my pockets," Illya sighed, adrenaline making him feel sober and exhausted.

Gaby slapped a palm over her mouth, eyes crinkling with amusement.

"It is okay...I think he thinks we are friends now," Illya explained.

Gaby removed her hand and grinned. "So you did make friends tonight!"

Illya shook his head. "If you would like. Can we leave now?"

"Yes," Gaby laughed, "I think you deserve it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tovarishch: Comrade  
> сердцеед (serdtseyed): Ladykiller/Lothario (Thank you to sokolova for the correction!).


	7. Well this is awkward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter comes from [a 100 word drabble challenge on Tumblr](http://nostalgicexpatriate.tumblr.com/post/159983535025/send-me-a-pairing-and-a-number-and-ill-write-you). Thank you to @Turningleaf for the request "#49. Well this is awkward."

A night alone and they burst into the kitchen. Planted on the counter, legs about Illya’s waist, his lips on her neck, Gaby sees a pair of eyes watching her over Illya's shoulder and she shrieks. 

Illya jerks backward and whips around as Napoleon finishes buttering his toast at the kitchen table.

"Well this is awkward..." he says, biting down with a crunch,

"What are you doing here?!" Illya barks, adjusting his trousers as Gaby pushes her skirt down with an irritated glare.

"Date cancelled," Solo says methodically around a mouthful of marble rye. “Don’t stop on account of me”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short and sweet. Sorry I don't have anything longer at the moment.


	8. The Borscht of You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby makes Illya borscht. He pretends to like it.

"How does it look?" Gaby asked expectantly.

"You made this?" Illya said, trying to buy himself more time before he decided how to react to the atrocity laid before him.

Gaby nodded, a bit shy. She wasn't one for demonstrative displays of affection so he knew how much it meant for her to have researched his favourite recipe and to have actually spent the hours needed to cook borscht...very vinegary, watery, absolutely abysmal looking borscht.

Illya swallowed in preparation.

"Go ahead and try it," Gaby said casually, although he could sense the underlying anxiety as she awaited his verdict.

Illya exhaled and took a spoonful into his mouth. His tongue protested and his throat nearly seized up but Illya used all his years of training to keep his face placid. He swallowed before his palate could process the full bouquet of offensive flavours, willed his stomach to keep from spewing it back up.

"How is it?" Gaby wondered, brows raised and curious.

"It is good," Illya lied once he was sure he would not retch, and then, because he was a fool in love, he gave her the best compliment he could think of, "it is just like my mother's." 

It was possibly the greatest lie he ever told, even for a man who made his livelihood on deception. He internally cringed at his words, maybe even felt his mother's spirit recoil in offense.

Gaby's face lit up in surprise and no small amount of pride. "Well I wasn't expecting _that_!" she smiled, "and Solo told me there was no way I could pull this off."

 _He was right_ , was Illya's traitorous thought, but he was in too deep with this cover to back out now...

"There's plenty more," Gaby claimed to Illya's horror as she went about ladling more of the putrid liquid into his bowl from the enormous stockpot on her tiny stove.

"Won't you have any?" he asked, the spoon nearly shaking in his hands as he forced himself to dip back in.

"No," Gaby made a face, "never liked the stuff..."

____

"Just like your mother's?" Solo laughed against the rim of his pint.

Illya planted his elbow's on bar and raked his hands through his hair. "I do not know why I said this..." he replied miserably.

"I know exactly why you said it," Napoleon responded, taking a sip. "You are completely owned by Teller's-"

"I could not just tell her the truth!" Illya insisted. 

"What truth?" Napoleon nettled with a grin. "I want to hear you say it."

Illya struggled to find a polite description but the words bubbled up in outrage. "That it tastes like old bathwater with cabbage!" Illya lamented. "All of Russia cries when I eat it!"

"No need to get dramatic-" Napoleon said as other pub patrons looked up at the outburst.

Illya turned to Napoleon, grabbing his shoulders. "You need to tell her how to improve it. Give her tips...something!"

Napoleon held up a hand to ward off his partner's desperation. "Sorry my Russian friend, but you got yourself into this mess and now only you can get yourself out of it."

Illya groaned, drowning his woes in his pint.

"I suggest you begin by developing a taste for cabbagey bathwater." Napoleon smirked. "Something tells me you'll be eating a lot of it..."

____

The third time Gaby announced that she had made borscht Illya felt the blood drain from his face. He had so far choked down two full and bubbling stock pots of the macabre swill, occasionally excusing himself from Gaby's expectant gaze to stand over the toilet to allow his stomach time to come to terms with its circumstances. It was all a test in his self-control, he reminded himself. He could do this for her. It made her happy.

That evening, as he sat down in surrender with a hot steaming bowl, Gaby informed him that she would be out for the evening. He felt a wash of guilty relief. 

"I'll only be a few hours," she said as she placed her lipstick and pistol in her purse. "I'll get some food on the way back."

lllya nearly asked her to bring him something as well. When the door closed and he heard her engine start he walked to the stove and put a lid on the pot. He needed to get rid of it before she came back. But how?

He considered the sink, but surely it would clog up in a gloppy mess. The toilet? It certainly belonged there but Illya couldn't bring himself to act on such a slight. He eyed the rubbish bin. He could dump the contents and take the bag out to the street and Gaby would be none the wiser. He would escape his fate this time around...

When the pot cooled Illya poured it into the rubbish bin and closed the lid with a determined finality. He hated wasting food, but he convinced himself it wasn't fit for human consumption so did not count as waste.

Illya went to the phone and ordered Chinese takeaway, salivating at the mere thought of _any_ food that wasn't the offensive stew in the bin. An hour later, after his takeaway dinner, Illya retired to the couch to read while he digested his meal, mentally making a note to take out the bin before bed.

He awoke when Gaby walked in the door. 

"Falling asleep on the couch again?" she smirked as she walked past. Panic seized Illya's drowsy body as Gaby made her way into the kitchen.

She noticed the empty pot in the sink and hummed in satisfaction. Then she turned and sniffed and her brow creased as Illya appeared in the doorway.

"Has something gone off in the bin?" she asked, walking over to the offending receptacle. "This needs to go out," she determined with a shake of her head.

"Gaby, wait-!" Illya exclaimed as Gaby lifted the bag from the rubbish bin. 

The bottom of the plastic bag burst open, cascading magenta broth and vegetables mixed with refuse and takeaway cartons splashed across the floor and soaked Gaby's feet. When the explosion settled, Gaby stood stock-still with the bag still dripping from her hand. Illya shut his eyes in shame.

When the shock wore off, Gaby exclaimed, "was that the entire pot of borscht?!"

Illya nodded, eyes still closed.

"Why was it in the rubbish bin?" she asked. "Did you not like it?"

"It was..." Illya exhaled and told the truth. "It was not good borscht."

Gaby quirked her head in confusion, red mess puddling around her feet. "But you just kept eating it?"

Illya nodded again.

"You made it for me," he sighed. "I should never have thrown it out. I am sorry малютка."

Gaby looked down at the sludge and to Illya's surprise gave a sharp laugh.

"I _knew_ it was terrible, I just thought it was because I didn't like anything that's Russian," she paused, looking at Illya. " _Most_ things that are Russian," she corrected with a small grin.

Illya looked at her dumbstruck.

"Now help me clean this up," she commanded stepping gingerly out of the puddle, "or else I'll make you golubtsy and force you to eat every last bite."

Illya rushed to get a mop and bucket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! It's that time of year again where I do f*ck all at my job for 2.5 months! Which means more fic writing for all the 8 people who are still into this fandom :P 
> 
> I am still planning on finishing my WIP so apologies big time for the long wait if you are still holding out for updates.


	9. Is there something in your pocket or...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is another [Tumblr drabble request](http://nostalgicexpatriate.tumblr.com/tagged/drabble). 200 words this time. I thought it fell under the 'awkward' category so am adding it to this series.

Request #57: "There is enough room for both of us"

“I’ll sleep on couch,” Illya hesitated, looking at the little rod iron bed doubtfully.

“Nonsense,” Gaby challenged. “It probably has bed bugs and it’s about two feet too short anyway.” She wiggled closer to the wall, patting the mattress behind her. “See, there is enough room for both of us.”

There was hardly enough room for a small dog or a cat but Illya relented with a tired sigh. The threadbare couch in the other room probably was vermin ridden and he didn’t want splinters in his side from the distressed floorboards.

He removed his shoes and lowered himself onto the bed, the springs groaning in protest. He awkwardly maneuvered his body so he wasn’t touching Gaby more than necessary.

Gaby shifted and grumbled in discomfort, elbowing him.

“Sorry,” he apologised, suddenly remembering the portable transceiver in his pocket. Gaby watched over her shoulder as he placed it on the nightstand.

They settled in eventually, leaning into each other as sleep finally took hold. At the brink of drifting off Illya felt Gaby shift again, rubbing against him.

“Illya?”

“Hm?” he responded, half-asleep, melting into her warmth, her scent in his nose.

“Do you have another transceiver in your pocket?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I stole this scene from Big Momma's House (yes, I AM a film connoisseur) - don't recommend it at all - BUT I did find this scene funny because I am 12.


	10. Getting Personal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The team reads the personal ads and maybe posts one too.

"Guess what today is!" Gaby announced, sauntering into the office twenty-three minutes late with a newspaper under her arm and a paper coffee cup in hand.

"It is work day," Illya grumbled from his desk, already well into his daily tasks. "Just like any other. Just like last four this week."

Gaby thumbed her nose at him as she passed.

"It's Friday," Napoleon said and who, while on time, had only succeeded in clipping his finger nails and having a smoke that morning. "And we all know what that means. Even Peril."

Illya sighed. He did know what it meant. It was Gaby and Napoleon's favorite morning at the office, not only because of the impending weekend but because the newspaper was of particular interest that day. 

The personal ads had been published. The source of never-ending entertainment and mirth for Illya's two sophomoric colleagues.

"Who do we have today?" Gaby wondered as she shook out the newspaper over her desk, covering any work she may have left out for the morning. She sipped her coffee as she scanned the page, brows dancing above her brown eyes as she reacted to the words of men attempting to woo a mate.

"Here's one," Gaby said. " _Stockily built, 101% male_ -"

"That's one percent more male than either Peril or myself!" Napoleon commented in mock awe.

" _Married, fed up at home. Wife doesn't swing_ -" Gaby read, giving a dramatic tisk.

Illya tried to pretend he wasn't listening but shook his head at that line. "Miscreant," he murmured, eyes still on the report he had planned to finish that morning. 

"Now Peril, some of us are a bit more liberal-minded..." Napoleon said.

"Perhaps if he is so 'liberal' he should not be married?" Illya countered before reigning himself in. This always happened. He let these stupid ads from deplorable men fire him up.

Gaby went on before Napoleon could set Illya off. " _Seeks women and couples to make swingers circuit. Business arrangement. Discretion necessary._ " 

Illya snorted. "Yes, of course. Wouldn't want wife to find out about adulterous public postings in newspaper she leaves out on breakfast table..."

"Peril, I think you enjoy this weekly routine more than either of us," Napoleon noticed. "You certainly have more to say on the subject."

"I am _trying_ to finish this report!" Illya barked. "Something neither of you have started!"

Napoleon yawned and Gaby read on as though Illya had not spoken. "This is an interesting gentleman. _Expert horseman, desires spirited, shapely fillies and mares_ -"

Napoleon made a braying noise from his side of the room and Gaby giggled in response. Illya rolled his eyes and kept pretending to write his report.

"- _Couples also welcome for interesting riding pleasures. Thoroughbred horseman is 5'10'', 40 and prefers daytime riding. Never thrown yet. How about it?_ " 

"How 'bout it Gabs?" Napoleon teased. "A thoroughbred for the stud farm."

"Too much maintenance," Gaby said wrinkling her nose and turning the page. "I'd prefer a hardworking carthorse."

The lead on Illya's pencil snapped when he pressed down too hard. Napoleon watched in interest as he swiftly swept the particles away.

"What about this one?" Gaby asked. " _Marriage-minded bachelor, college graduate, handsome, 35, 6'3''_ -" Gaby stopped to hum in interest. 

"Tick that box," Napoleon chimed in.

" _Looking for single attractive woman_ ," Gaby read. " _Flexible. Anxious to please_ -"

"Oh, I bet he is."

Illya ground his teeth.

" _Enjoys travel, parties, the beach, cars and the ballet_ -" Gaby paused. "You know, he doesn't sound half bad!"

"Take down his number," Napoleon suggested.

"Maybe I will..." Gaby considered, sipping her coffee and circling the ad with her pencil.

"Yes, respond to ad. I'm sure his wife that he did not mention will not mind," Illya commented passively as he sharpened his pencil.

"Not every man who posts in here is a cheating scumbag Illya," Gaby replied. "Maybe some don't know how to meet people in their day-to-day lives?"

"Some are just _pathetic_ scumbags," Napoleon smirked. 

Gaby shot him an annoyed look. 

"Real men do not post in newspaper to find women," Illya agreed with a nod. 

"It's more than you're doing," Napoleon said nearly under his breath.

Illya shifted his chair back, threatening to stand, glaring at the American from across the room.

"Alright, that's it for today," Gaby said to diffuse the situation, folding up the paper. "We'll just have to wait to see what's in store for us next week."  
___

The following week Gaby arrived twenty minutes late with her Friday morning paper, just like usual. Illya bit his tongue before making a rude comment. Gaby leafed to her favorite page and began to leisurely read through the text. 

After a moment Gaby suddenly choked on her coffee. Illya looked up as she tried to compose herself.

"What is it?" he asked in concern.

Gaby swallowed, eyes wide in shock and then amusement as she read the paper. Illya watched her eyes flit from left to right and a smile broaden on her face. She slapped her palm over her mouth to smother her laughter.

Illya wondered what heinous degenerate elicited such a reaction from her. He looked over at Napoleon who was smiling knowingly with a familiar conspiratorial look directed at Gaby. He felt his heart-rate increase.

"What is going on?!" Illya demanded.

"Should I?" Gaby asked, looking at Napoleon.

"Be my guest," he said leaning back in his chair as Illya shot him an enraged look.

Gaby cleared her throat and read in a serious tone. " _From Russia with Love. 6'5'', blonde, brooding but sensitive. Accent._ "

Illya's hand curled into a fist and he began to see red.

" _Enjoys women's fashion, boating and disassembling furniture_." Gaby's voice cracked with amusement as she continued to read. " _Am submissive. Would very much like to hear from dominant women_."

Gaby burst out laughing. The pencil in Illya's shaking fist snapped in two. 

" _If you like big vigorous men, send picture_." She threw her head back in a near breathless guffaw, barely able to speak the last line of the ad. " _First letter and I will answer_."

Illya shot up from his desk and nearly crawled over Napoleon's, grabbing him by the lapels and dragging him to his feet. 

"Illya!" Gaby cried, voice still ringing with laughter. "Put him down it was just a joke!"

Illya and Napoleon struggled over the desk, sending reports and files scattering to the floor. Napoleon defended his neck from Illya's hands but the proud smirk never left his face, thrilled by Illya's reaction. They stumbled and collided with the wall, knocking a framed picture of Churchill to the floor as two analysts from the next room over gathered in the doorway to see the commotion. 

"I should have killed you in Berlin!" Illya growled against Napoleon's face before throwing the American to the floor with a thud that shook the filing cabinets. As Illya knelt to put a fist in Solo's face Gaby grabbed his wrists. 

"Calm down!" she ordered, pushing him back to his feet, all amusement gone from her voice. "You're going to get all of us fired!"

Illya backed off but his eyes never left Napoleon as the American got up and brushed himself off. The two analysts shook their heads and went back to their office.

"It was a joke," Gaby reiterated. "A stupid joke that Napoleon will apologize for."

Solo scoffed as he set about righting his desk.

"Napoleon _will_ apologize!" Gaby barked over her shoulder.

"Okay, I'm sorry, alright!" He conceded, adjusting his jacket.

"And I'm sorry for laughing," Gaby admitted. Illya could feel his heart calm and his breathing slow. Gaby released his wrists and adjusted his tie. He softened considerably.

"Brooding but sensitive," she smirked up at him before retreating to her desk. She folded up the newspaper and stuffed it in the rubbish bin.

"Okay, get back to work."  
___

The following Friday Gaby showed up without a newspaper and sat quietly at her desk. Illya was both relieved and disappointed and still a bit mortified by his behavior the previous week. He knew Gaby had enjoyed the ads and now he had ruined that weekly routine for her. 

Napoleon returned to the office after stopping by the mail room. He dropped a thick stack of letters on Illya's desk. 

"What is this?" Illya asked, recoiling from the pungent smell of perfume permeating from the stack. 

"Responses to your mating call," Napoleon smiled. "Seems there's quite a market for 6'5'' submissive Russian men in this town."

"Really?" Gaby said.

She walked over, picked up the pile to leaf through in vague interest before dumping the whole lot in the rubbish bin. 

"Thought I'd save you the time and effort," she smiled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The ads are based on [real personal ads from the 1960s](http://www.joeydevilla.com/2013/01/07/1960s-swingers-personal-ads/). Most of them looking for fellow swingers...


	11. Miss July

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya indulges in some reading material.

"What is taking so long!" Illya growled into the phone. "I have been here hours already..."

"These things take time," Napoleon said on the other end of the line, likely from some seedy phone-booth a few blocks away. "Now just be a good guard dog and watch that flat until I get back."

Illya grumbled into the receiver.

"From what I recall there is quite a bit of interesting reading material in that flat. Keep yourself entertained."

Illya could almost hear his partner's shit eating grin before the call dropped. _Reading material_. Illya scoffed. Maybe that's what Cowboy would call it. Their mark's flat was practically decorated in pornography. It came as no surprise the man would sell nearly anything, including intelligence, to feed his sex addiction. Just being in his living quarters made Illya's skin crawl.

Illya hung up the phone and sat back down at the filthy kitchen table drumming his fingers in boredom. He had already cleaned his gun as well as checked the connections of his portable transmitter, and the flat's blacked out windows meant he couldn't even watch the activity in the street below. He was going to go out of his mind if Cowboy didn't hurry up.

Illya eyed the stack of magazines thrown haphazardly onto the table. He pulled one off the top and glanced around as if someone were watching. A playful blonde smiled at him from the magazine's cover as she drew a rabbit on her abdomen with a tube of pink lipstick.

Illya rolled his eyes. Only weak and pathetic men indulged in such literature.

He flipped through the magazine almost absentmindedly, past pages upon pages of buxom women flaunting their breasts in ridiculous positions, only pausing to skim some of the articles masquerading as legitimate journalism. Illya nearly tossed the magazine away before he stopped abruptly as he unfolded the centerfold.

Stretched out across two full color pages was a slim brunette lying on a white shag carpet strewn with vinyl records. Dark bangs covered her forehead and a messy ponytail fanned across the carpet as she toyed with the cord of the pink phone she was holding to her ear, a cheeky smirk on her lips. Strikingly familiar brown eyes framed by false lashes peered up at Illya from the page. The model's resemblance to Gaby was so uncanny that Illya felt himself blush, as though he had walked in on his colleague making a personal phone call in the buff.

The gentleman in him commanded Illya to close the filthy rag but he couldn't stop staring at the woman's lithe figure and small breasts, wondering what _would_ happen if he were to walk in on Gaby in a similar position. Would she cover herself and demand he leave or would he receive the same inviting grin?

Without a second thought Illya creased the inner page at the magazine's spine and tore out the image. As he folded it into a neat pocket sized square his mind rattled through reasons why he needed the photograph; the model's face could be used on a false document for Gaby if he needed a photo in a pinch or maybe he needed a visual reference if he had to select outfits for Gaby without her being present...

Illya shook his head at his lame excuses. He knew why he took the centerfold and exactly what he was going to use it for. There was no point in lying to himself.

The door to the flat jostled in the other room as someone undid the locks. Illya slapped the magazine shut and tossed it onto the pile. He stretched out and leaned his elbow on the table, attempting to look bored and indifferent. The folded glossy page felt like it was burning a hole in his trouser pocket.

Napoleon entered the kitchen and gave Illya an odd look at his overly casual posture.

"Took you long enough," Illya grumbled, inspecting his nails.

Napoleon sauntered over to the table and fingered the magazine stack. Illya swallowed as he pulled the issue from the top of the pile.

"I'm sure you kept yourself busy," Napoleon said. "Ah, Miss Ogle. This is a good one." He tapped the cover and flipped it open, turning the pages in reverence.

Illya shifted in his seat. "We should leave-"

"If I remember correctly there was a lovely centerfold who had a _striking_ resemblance to Teller in here." He picked up the magazine and showed Illya the page where the centerfold should have been. "Strange that it is missing..."

Illya busied himself by putting his gun in his holster. "It is probably in different issue. I'm sure you have read many."

"No, no. It was definitely this one," Napoleon assured. "'Miss July 1964' I believe. You don't forget a photograph like that."

Illya stood and pushed past Napoleon, making his way to the front door of the flat.

"Funny how that page is missing..." Napoleon said again, closing the magazine and turning to leave. "I hope it goes to good use wherever it ended up."

"Shut up Cowboy," Illya growled as they left the flat, slamming the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a play off of the 'nudie mags' mentioned in the third chapter.
> 
> Playboy's Miss July 1964 was actually Melba Ogle, mentioned by Napoleon and was the model described on the [front cover](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/510TqguGqSL._SY300_.jpg). She was probably also the centerfold for that issue but for the purposes of this story I invented the Gaby lookalike.


	12. Telling the Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya is injected with truth serum and reveals some inner desires.

Napoleon and UNCLE's resident doctor hoisted Illya Kuryakin's semi-conscious body onto the examination table at HQ. When Waverly entered the room Gaby was brushing the sweat damp hair off of Illya's forehead and the doctor was cutting through the right sleeve of his jacket.

"Do we know what he was injected with?" Waverly asked in a calm voice, seeing the bruise on Illya's inner arm.

"Looks to be some sort a sedative," the doctor said, opening Illya's eye for inspection. The Russian weakly batted his hand away and grumbled in his throat.

"He's still responsive," Napoleon said. "He was speaking in the car but it was all Russian nonsense."

"Your adversaries may have tried using some type of 'truth serum' on him," the doctor theorized. "It shouldn't affect him in the long term but he may be a bit looser of tongue than he usually is."

Waverly cursed, for a spy this could be as dangerous as any poison. "We need to find out who he ran into and what he may have told them," the Englishman said as he approached the table.

Gaby held Illya's head still but his eyes rolled beneath his closed lids, mind still active in his drugged state. Waverly leaned over and spoke in fluent, authoritative Russian.

"Kuryakin. Where did you go after you picked up the package from Gaby?"

Illya shifted on the table as he processed his superior's words. "Gaby?" he said with a husky voice, almost confused. Gaby lifted her brows in expectation.

"Yes, after you met with her. Did you go directly to the laboratory? Or were you stopped on the way?"

Illya's forehead furrowed for a moment and then a lopsided smile spread across his face. "Gaby." he said dreamily. "I want...I want to make babies with her."

Waverly's eyes went round and Napoleon sputtered with laughter after a moment. Gaby looked at them in confusion, not fully comprehending Illya's Russian words. "Did he just say something about children?" she asked.

"Yes," Napoleon laughed, "your children."

" _My_ children?" Gaby scoffed.

Waverly waved Napoleon off and the American sobered, doing his best to hide his grin behind his hand. "Kuryakin, I need you to focus," Waverly said slowly and clearly. "What did they ask-"

"Eight," Illya grunted assuredly.

"Eight, what?" Gaby asked, picking up on the most basic Russian she knew.

"Eight babies," Illya rumbled. "All daughters."

Napoleon's eyebrows shot up in wonderment. He leaned over Illya's feet at the end of the table. "I always thought a man like you would prefer sons, Peril," Napoleon replied in Russian.

Waverly rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Please don't encourage this Solo, we really need to get to the bottom-"

Illya emitted something that was a mix between a scoff and a cough. "Daughters with Gaby better than any sons you will have," he said, managing another drunken smile. "Stronger."

"What is he saying?!" Gaby demanded upon hearing her name.

"Absolutely nothing," Waverly assured. He stepped away from the table. "It seems Kuryakin is out for the count. I don't think he was capable of telling his captors anything of merit even if he had wanted to. When he comes around we'll meet to have a proper debriefing."

Napoleon nodded and followed Waverly out of the room as the doctor went about cleaning Illya's wound. Gaby stood in bewilderment beside Illya's unconscious body.

"But what did he say?!" Gaby called after the two men.  
___

A week later Illya was full recovered and his assailants apprehended. Solo had personally examined them himself.

"Well Peril," Napoleon said after the interrogation, settling back down at his desk in their shared office, "seems you're in the clear. Aside from your future family plans, you didn't tell them anything of use."

Illya shook his head, puzzled. "Family plans? What are you talking about?"

"You know. Your plans. Eight children, all daughters," he paused, smiling. "All Gaby's."

The blood drained from Illya's face, his mouth gaped as Napoleon's grin grew. "I-" Illya sputtered as he tried to gain composure. "I was drugged! I did not know what I was saying."

"True," Napoleon mused, "but they don't call it a 'truth serum' for nothing."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is in response to a thread on Tumblr between myself, milkshakekate, cassiopeium and others about Illya's repressed desire to have a bajillion daughter with Gaby. This is canon. This is FACT. Fight me.
> 
> I also stole the line 'I want to make babies with her' from a recent Game of Thrones episode because it's amazing.


	13. Office Politics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby helps Illya deal with an office nuisance.

"And what does this dial do?"

Illya suppressed a sigh as Jane Browning pointed a manicured finger at the transceiver on his workbench. He had an endless list of tasks to complete before the next mission and the secretary's 'brief' and unwarranted visits were really eating into his time and patience.

"That is to adjust frequency of device," he said shortly. When Jane reached to turn the dial, Illya lightly grabbed her wrist. "Please do not touch."

Jane smiled apologetically and glanced down at the large hand on her wrist. Illya let go and returned his attention to the circuit board he was repairing. Jane sighed and leaned against the bench. He could smell her floral perfume, which grew stronger by the day, as well as all the hair product that protected her stylish and artificial bouffant. Illya was convinced she used enough hairspray to weatherise propeller blades. 

"What about this?" Jane asked, indicating a wire, leaning further over his workbench so that her bust brushed against his arm. 

Illya did sigh this time as he moved his arm back. "It is link to external power source," he explained impatiently. 

"Fascinating," Jane purred before turning around and hopping to sit prettily on the workbench. Illya opened his mouth to protest when she continued, "I don't have much experience with mechanical whatnots but whenever my type writer-"

"If I need assistance," Illya cut her off, "I will ask Agent Teller. She has a mind for these things."

The cheeky smile faded from Jane's face. "Gabriella," Jane said slowly. "The German mechanic?"

"And special agent," Illya reminded.

"She's...bossy," Jane said crisply as she shifted on the bench. 

Illya snorted with amusement. "If she were man you would say she is assertive."

"But she's not a man," Jane pointed out. "She's a girl."

"Woman," Illya corrected, pulling a cord out from underneath her. 

Jane shifted and shrugged, noncommittal. "Could've fooled me."

Illya resisted the urge to pull her down from the bench when the door to the R&D department opened.

"Jane," Gaby's voice rang. "Waverly needs you,"

Jane toyed with a bundle of wires on Illya's workbench but he could feel her eyes boring into the side of his face.

"Right now, Jane," Gaby requested bitingly. 

She placed a hand on Illya's shoulder as she jumped down from the bench. "See you around," she smiled at him. 

Illya turned to watch her saunter out of the room without acknowledging Gaby who slammed the door behind the secretary. "How much time does she waste in here?" Gaby asked once she knew the woman was out of earshot.

"Too much," Illya grumbled, turning back to his work. 

"Then just tell her to get lost," Gaby suggested, walking over to him.

Illya rubbed his brow in frustration. "She is Waverly's secretary and popular with the admin staff-"

"So?" Gaby huffed, taking Jane's vacated seat on the bench.

"I already have reputation of being..." Illya searched for the word, brow still furrowed.

"What?" Gaby wondered. 

"Frightening," Illya decided. "I do not want to be hostile to our colleagues if it can be helped."

Gaby hummed in mild agreement, legs dangling from the bench. 

"Well she can't keep wasting your time," Gaby mused. "And it isn't fair to the poor girl to lead her on." She gave him a coy look and Illya let his hand slide up the back of one of her legs as she swung it gently.

"I will just need to ignore it," Illya said with a shrug. 

Gaby drummed her fingers on the bench and scowled. She jumped down and headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Illya asked in concern.

"I have some thinking to do," Gaby said before slipping out the door.  
___

Napoleon returned to the office to see Gaby deep in thought, eyes narrowed and staring off into the middle distance, index finger tapping at her lip.

Napoleon shivered at her look. "Whose funeral should I plan on attending this weekend?" he asked.

Gaby looked up with a scowl as though she had just noticed her colleague's presence. "Do you know that Waverly's secretary visits Illya in R&D nearly everyday?"

"You can't kill Jane, Gaby," Napoleon said, sitting at his desk. "It's too obvious."

"I don't want to kill her!" Gaby huffed. "I just...don't want her interfering in Illya's work," she claimed, very professionally and very unconvincingly. 

"Yes, I'm sure that's it," Napoleon smirked with a slight eye roll. Gaby picked up a pencil and tossed it at her partner from across the room. He deflected it with a grin and offered, "Why don't you mark your territory so she backs off?"

"I can't say anything," Gaby pouted. "I have to be _diplomatic_ around here. As Waverly is so fond of reminding me..."

Napoleon considered her situation. "Maybe you can't say anything but you could...show her."

Gaby's eyes sharpened and she looked up at Napoleon with a mischievous quirk of her lips. Napoleon leaned back in his chair and wiggled his brows. "You're a bad influence," she smiled. 

"Why, thank you," the American smiled back.

Gaby jumped to her feet and grabbed a dossier from the cabinet. She handed it to Napoleon.

"At five to five tell Jane to deliver this to R&D," Gaby instructed with a wink. "It's imperative."  
___

At ten to five Gaby knocked on the door to R&D. Illya grunted an acknowledgment from within.

"Just me," she said, as Illya looked over his shoulder in relief. "Almost time to leave."

Illya glanced at the clock and back at his work. "I just need to finish a few things," he insisted as Gaby walked over and took the transmitter from his hand. "Before..." he trailed off at the look in Gaby's eyes. Gaby set the gadget on the bench, hiked her skirt up a bit and straddled Illya in the chair. 

"It is still work day," he breathed as she ran her hands over the front of his sweater and down making a halfhearted attempt to capture them.

"Just barely," she whispered back when her hands found his belt buckle and her lips brushed against his neck. Illya surrendered with a groan as she went about undoing the buckle, his own hands sliding up the warmth of her exposed thighs.

He bent his head to mouth at the soft curve of her shoulder, cursing against her skin as her hand found its way into his trousers. Gaby made a little noise of surprise and the chair squeaked when Illya shifted to pull her more tightly against himself. He was so lost in the moment that he didn't hear the light knock or the door opening.

"Ah, Jane," Gaby said over Illya's shoulder from her perch on his lap. Illya froze with his mouth on her neck. "You can set it on the desk over there."

There was a moment of astonished silence before Illya heard the rapid click of heels to the desk and back.

"That'll be all Jane," Gaby said sweetly, looking back down at her hand. "See you tomorrow."

A huff and the door shut. Illya sat frozen and mute as he heard the woman retreat down the hall. "It is still work day," he hissed again, stilling Gaby's hand.

Gaby glanced at the clock. "It's five minutes past. We can do what we want with our free time," she said with a wicked smile and continued. 

Illya leaned back with a groan. 

"You're welcome by the way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was written based on a prompt from cassiopeium on Tumblr, asking for a chapter based on Illya and Gaby getting 'caught' in the act at the office. 
> 
> This is also a throw back to the Jane mentioned in my other fic, weapon of mass destruction, So this can be considered in the same 'verse' as that fic, if you want.
> 
> ALSO happy 1 year anniversary of this fic! I hope to get to 500 kudos ;) plz helpz


	14. Mr. October

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gaby and Napoleon discover Illya's past as a Soviet poster boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is based on a piece of fan art on Tumblr by kagenohsita depicting Illya in Soviet Realism. You can find it (NSFW!) [here](http://nostalgicexpatriate.tumblr.com/post/165404723405/this-is-justwow-that-kgb-logo-is-inconveniently) . The poster I refer to in this chapter is based on this work, with some minor edits to make it less...revealing and a bit more relevant to propaganda of the time.

"How much further?" Gaby shivered, pulling her long, roughly woven coat more tightly around herself. She could never imagine there was a city more depressingly bleak than East Berlin, but Kiev in January was giving it a run for its money. All she wanted was to get back to the safe house and stick her feet in front of the fire and defrost after hours of freezing her toes off for the sake of a dead end mission.

"Only a few more blocks," Napoleon replied, his breath coming out in gusts of vapor in the dry frigid air. 

Gaby turned down a familiar side street and picked up her pace when she recalled the route back to the safe house. After a moment, she realized she only heard her own steps crunching on the frost covered cobblestone. She turned around to see a dark and empty street, stray snowflakes floating by the street lights in eerie silence.

"Napoleon?" she called. When she received no answer she ran back to the street she turned off of, huffing in relief when she saw her partner standing on the pavement staring at the concrete wall of closed shop.

"Napoleon, what are you...." her voice trailed off when she saw the focus of his attention. Her mouth dropped open, the cold biting at her chapped lips. She huffed a great gust of misty breath. "Is that...?"

"I believe it is," Napoleon said, despite his trance. 

Spread before them on cold gray wall was a bright and garish piece of propaganda, not unlike the many other examples they had seen during their time in the USSR, featuring a monolithic specimen of male Soviet perfection standing before a fluttering crimson and gold flag, painted in the unmistakable likeness of their mutual partner. About his waist was a rippling standard proclaiming 'Glory to October!' in bold Cyrillic. 

It was the only thing covering his nakedness. 

"Glory to October, indeed," Napoleon hummed.

"I think I've dreamed of this," Gaby murmured in her stupor.

"Who hasn't?" Napoleon replied. He shook himself slightly and broke the spell when he stepped forward and began peeling the poster from the wall with gloved fingers. 

"What are you doing?" Gaby gasped.

"You really think I'm just going to leave this here?" Napoleon laughed. "Now get over here and make sure I don't tear the other side."

The two agents carefully removed the poster from the wall and rolled it up between them. Napoleon stuffed it in his jacket as they made their way back to the safe house where their Russian partner waited impatiently inside. "What took you so long?" he growled when Gaby and Napoleon shuffled in through the side door, bringing a flurry of snowflakes with them. 

"We got distracted," Gaby said, barely containing her laughter as she looked Illya up and down. Napoleon stood next to her and appraised Illya in turn.

"Yep, that's definitely him," Napoleon nodded.

Illya looked between them in irritation. "What are you talking about?" 

Gaby pushed Napoleon's jacket open and pulled out the poster before unraveling it with a flourish on the kitchen table.

"Comrade Kuryakin: Mr. October," Napoleon smirked as Illya's face dropped in shocked humiliation when he recognized himself staring up from the table's surface.

"This _is_ you isn't it?" Gaby giggled. "Or is it just by chance that the national personification of the Soviet Union looks just like you?"

Illya swallowed and the blush grew higher in his cheeks. "It is me," he confessed as he reached forward and tried the roll the poster back up.

"No no no," Napoleon swatted his hands away. "We need to hear all about this. How did it come about?"

"It was years ago!" Illya protested in defense of his character. "My last year in Special Forces. I was selected to participate in propaganda campaign and my commanding officer said I needed to comply."

"Did you _pose_ for this?" Gaby wondered.

"Of course," Illya explained innocently. "I was sent to Leningrad school where I met with artist and she took sketches."

"In the nude?" Napoleon asked skeptically. 

"No...well, not initially," Illya said slowly. "I was to wear my uniform, but then the artist determined, it did not..." Illya cleared his throat with an embarrassed cough. "It did not properly illustrate the heroic ideal of the people. So it was decided to sketch me in the...natural state of the worker."

Gaby stifled a giggle and Illya shot her an annoyed frown, face still red hot with humiliation. 

"Uh-huh," Napoleon hummed, eyes narrowing. "Are you sure the artist didn't just want to see you naked?"

Illya recoiled with disgust, shaking his head. "Of course not, she was sixty-year-old woman!"

Gaby scoffed at his reaction. "So what? Sixty-year-old women can't appreciate the...male form? Especially when that form is a twenty-something Spetsnaz standing naked in her studio?"

"I can tell you from extensive experience that they can," Napoleon confirmed with a cheeky grin.

"No!. It is...was-" Illya sputtered, brows furrowing as he looked at the poster again as though he was only just noticing in that moment the erotic nature of the work. "It was... art! Nothing more!"

"Oh, it's a work of art all right, no one is denying that," the American smiled. Gaby nodded in agreement as she looked the poster over again, eyes lingering on the lower abdominal muscles barely concealed by the standard.

"Did she shave you?" Gaby asked, noticing his bare chest. Napoleon began to crack up and Gaby couldn't help but join in.

"You are children," Illya barked as he grabbed the poster, rolled it up and marched to the back door. 

"Damn," Napoleon murmured in concern when the door slammed behind Illya. "I hope he doesn't burn it."

___

The next morning, Napoleon checked in on Gaby as she finished packing.

"Car will be here in five minutes," he said, peering around the door to her room.

"Almost finished," she replied, stuffing a long white cylinder into her case.

"Is that what I think it is?" Napoleon asked, slipping in and closing the bedroom door behind him.

"It sure is," Gaby said with a triumphant smile. "I found it on top of the rubbish heap out back." 

"Comrade Poster Boy won't be pleased to know you have that."

"I don't care. Besides," she shrugged, sitting on the case to close the latches. "It's only fair."

"Fair?"

"I have this poster," she said, tapping the suitcase beneath her, "and he gets to keep that dog-eared centerfold hidden in the lining of his own suitcase." 

Napoleon's lips curled into a surprised grin. "You know about that?"

Gaby quirked a brow at him. "What kind of spy would I be if I didn't know the dirty secrets of my own partners?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There usually isn't any continuity between these chapters but for this one I couldn't help but link it to 'Miss July' for obvious reasons.
> 
> References to October is a recurring theme in Soviet art and propaganda due to Lenin's October Revolution in 1917.
> 
> Soviet propaganda usually depicted the USSR as an attractive, well-built blonde factory worker, laborer, scientist, engineer or soldier. Many of which do actually [look](http://fuckyeahmarxismleninism.tumblr.com/post/161179897728/glory-to-october-soviet-space-poster) [like](http://mysleepykisser-with-feelings-hid.tumblr.com/post/165117788507) [Illya](http://historyinposters.tumblr.com/post/111175864340/soviet-poster-depicting-a-russian-worker-alongside). I personally love these Sino-Soviet [posters](http://jackviolet.tumblr.com/post/97836785443/so-as-a-reaction-to-the-recently-passed-anti-gay), showing what great comrades (/possibly gay lovers) Mr. USSR is with Mr. Communist China. Someone write some fan fiction about them!!!
> 
> I made the artist female because Illya just can't say no to older, 'motherly' (as he sees them) women.


End file.
